Black Ascendance
by Whispers Of A Mad God
Summary: "The living shudder and the World stills, as the Black Ascension draws near... The One with the Power to Resurrect the Dark Lord will be born as the Seventh Month dies..." Dark AU. The memories of Tom Riddle leak into seven-year-old Harry's mind; thus begins the Black Ascendance of all that is Dark. Fem!Bisexual!Harry; Metamorph!Dark!Harry; Sane!Voldemort; HarryxBellatrix. Femslash
1. Cry Of The Nightingale

******A/N: Good morning. Or afternoon. Or whatever.**

******Hope you like this story. I haven't seen any female, sociopathic Harry's - some sadistic ones, but none that just don't give a fuck. I'd like to give this fic in the world of Dark!Harry's a twist, with a focus on serving a Dark Lord and the taking-over-the-world bit. She's not going to declare herself the next Dark Lady, and she's not going to have a moral takeover somewhere down the storyline. Nope, nope, nope. She's corrupted to the core, and apathetic to the world. She only cares about the twisted 'family' she builds and her mate, and her service to the Dark Lord.**

******Warnings: Murder and light descriptions of gore; terrorism; mentions of child abuse; getting away free with violent crime; femalexfemale sex (non-explicit); common use of profanity; black magic. Don't like, don't read.**

******Disclaimer: Standard disclaimers apply. I own nothing you see here: it all belongs to... whomever it belongs to. Even the occasional references to other works, such as the Wheel of Time reference below. This disclaimer applies to the entirety of this story.**

* * *

_Black Ascendance_

_by Whispers Of A Mad God_

_Chapter One; Cry Of The Nightingale_

* * *

**23:58, July 30, 1987;**

**4 Privet Drive, Surrey, Great Britain;**

**First Floor, Closet Underneath The Stairs;**

**The Nightingale;**

* * *

I lay awake on the cold floor of the closet underneath the stairs, breathing slowly and reveling in the silence. My hair, which at the moment was a dark, lustrous black, splayed loosely around me. A single lock trailed softly down my face before catching in my breath and falling to the hard ground.

As I was alone, I let my features morph into my favorite form. Cheekbones rose and shining emerald eyes slanted, taking on an aristocratic look. Perfect teeth whitened and sharpened, biting into soft, pink lips. Silky skin lightened to a creamy white hue, offsetting my raven hair beautifully.

Shifting my body gave me a sense of control I've lacked all my life. I smiled softly.

_Maybe I should run away,_ I thought idly, humming a rhythmic melody. _Thievery would be child's play, and once I'm set up in a nice flat all my own I could begin a modeling career._

My mood skyrocketed at the hopeful musing, but any plans I made pushed themselves back. An odd, yet familiar, magical compulsion shattered my dreams again, and I resigned myself subconsciously to a life as the Dursley's house slave.

I pulled a silver pocket watch I had stolen from a trusting stranger a year back from a hidden nook in the closet. The cool metal was engraved with swirling lotus designs, and on the back gleamed the initials of the moniker I had chosen for myself: _M.G. _

I rather liked the name I had chosen; since Aunt and Uncle never told me what my birth name was, I just created one for myself. I snuck out of the house several months ago and asked the clerk at the local general store to engrave the initials onto the pocket watch for me.

I fingered the clasp and clicked the contraption open, and smiled at the soothing words carved elegantly into the locket. I didn't know what they meant, as my poor control over my shifting meant that I couldn't attend school, but the words calmed me nevertheless. Sometimes, I liked to wonder and theorize as to the meaning of the words, and compiled several dozen guesses. I knew I could just ask one of the locals to tell me, but I was too afraid that they might take it away from me.

The time read 11:58. Two minutes until my seventh birthday.

For as long as I could remember, I had lived... no, _survived_ here at Privet Drive. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon never touched me flesh-to-flesh, far too afraid to catch some sort of disease. But I was assigned countless back-breaking chores around the house, and was given few moments of respite. And when I was too slow to complete the work, when I didn't do it well enough, or even for no reason at all, they beat me.

They didn't like to look at me, though, so these moments of rest were snatched whenever one of them walked into the room. After all, I had to obey Rule Four: _Seek the closet underneath the stairs whenever I get my freakishness to close to their normal-ness. _I rather liked Rule Four.

I watched the ticking analog clock as it crawled closer and closer to my seventh birthday. I didn't know why, and wouldn't be able to explain it if I had, but I just _knew_ it would mark the beginning of something wonderful.

The second hand reached twelve; the hour hand matched it;

And I screamed, spasming under an intense, searing _pain,_ rolling and shaking under the cruel, agonizing torture.

I hadn't known it then, but every witch and wizard undergoes three days of magical inheritance: once each on their bodies' seventh, eleventh, and seventeenth birthdays. Most are unaware of these ever-so-special days, barely registering the marked enlargement of their magical cores. And the lucky few, typically those with a talent of some sorts – such as my metamorph power, or latent parselmouth ability – will notice an increase in the versatility or ease of their unique boon as their magical core stretches.

But the magical core resides in the soul, and I play vessel to more than one.

In the coming-on-six-years since I had become a Horcrux, even if I hadn't been aware of it at the time, my soul had formed a tentative bond with the fragment of the Dark Lord. Had I been a more usual case, either my soul or his would have whipped the other into submission and devoured it; but his was just a fragment, and mine was still new and protected by the sacrificial blood magic my mother had accidentally erected.

And so the souls bonded as equals, like paired stars that revolve endlessly around each other, never touching and never faltering. My soul held the reins to my body, but I acquired hints of the fragment's magical power and the legendary ability to speak parseltongue. I could speak to snakes, and my random bouts of accidental magic was more forceful, more impressive, more common. Now 'I' meant _both_ souls, working in tandem. _I_ became a _we, _an _us._

But the Dark Lord's soul fragment was well beyond the age of magical inheritances, and didn't take kindly to the eager stretching of a younger soul. I felt myself pulled in two directions, as the elder soul dug their metaphorical boots into the earth, and the younger attempted to run free.

And while inheritance day was one of strengthening, it was also one of weakness; and the fragment of the Dark Lord's soul could never be described as kind or honorable. It saw the yearning of the metamorph's soul and recognized the weakness for what it was, and took that moment to attack for the first time since that Halloween night.

The witch or wizard is comprised of three parts: the soul or spirit, outfitted with a magical core; the body, which acts as a vessel of sorts for the soul; and the mind, which gives texture and ability to the spirit. The fragment of the Dark Lord could never hope to defeat a young, healthy and whole spirit, and both couldn't and wouldn't want to attack it's assumed future vessel, so chose to attack the seven-year-old mind.

Thus the blinding, hellfire sensation of pain, rending shrieks that could pierce the world. (It was at this point that old Vernon Dursley wrenched the door to the closet underneath the stairs open, and witnessed the spasming of his niece/nephew-in-law.

_"Waking up us honest folk... good-for-nothing freak... what will the neighbors think..."_

Uncle Vernon then kicked the metamorph cruelly, knocking her out. He slammed the door closed with a resounding smash, locked it tight, and waddled back upstairs to the master bedroom and an irate wife.)

With the conscious mind slumbering fitfully and unable to wake, the subconscious mind took control to do battle against the older, wiser, and infinitely more powerful soul fragment. Had the mother's love blood protection been working correctly, then a single, holy strike of the younger soul would have been sufficient to lay waste to the Horcrux. But the loathing and scorn of my only nearby relative, Petunia Dursley, weakened the blood protection to a near-useless state.

As it was, the blood protection cushioned the first handful of blows from the fragment against my mind. The magical core residing in my younger soul witnessed and analyzed these attacks, and was able to recreate the feel of the magic and erect a shield of sorts around my seven-year-old mind by instinct alone. The Dark Lord's Horcrux hesitated at this admittedly impressive display of Occlumency, leaving an opening for the younger soul to retaliate.

One strike was all it took for the memories of Tom Marvolo Riddle, better known as the Dark Lord Voldemort, to spill out of the elder soul and into my soft, underdeveloped mind.

The memories showed the beginning, on the thirty-first of December of the year 1926, in Wool's Orphanage in London, when the most powerful Dark Lord since Mordred himself was born.

Then, years of taking abuse at the hands of the other orphans for being _different _and _weird, _for being a _freak. _(I, both the collective 'we' and the younger soul itself, felt sympathy and empathy for the Horcrux, but no pity. He wouldn't take pity, and neither would I.) Young Riddle quickly recognized the bouts of accidental magic as a useful tool, and bent the magic to his will. He turned it into a weapon, and wielded it against the weak and fragile muggles.

Some years later, Professor Dumbledore came. He introduced Riddle to a world of magic, providing answers to many of his questions. And he also realized that for the _real _answers, for the _real_ results he was looking for, he needed subtlety.

When he was sorted into Slytherin House, he was a nobody. Three things were valued in the Snake Pit: ancestry, wealth, and personal skill. Being an orphan, a pauper, and a muggleborn, he quickly realized the need to develop and hone the talents necessary to become powerful.

And so, for the first handful of years, he kept his head down and practiced magic. He was insightful and charismatic, the eyes in the dark. He discovered useful blackmail; he found the Room of Requirements; he became the most skilled wizard in his year, and then the school.

And so he revealed his identity as a parselmouth, and before long he rose to the lonely peak at the top of the food chain. Wondering why a muggleborn would be a parselmouth at all, he did some research. What he found further cemented his position as the cream of the crop.

For being the Heir of Slytherin, he now had all three of the values: ancestry, wealth, and skill.

When he graduated from Hogwarts at the top of his class, the first thing he did was seek the position as the school's Defense Master. His goal was to revolutionize the Wizarding World, and what better foundation to build from is there then the most renowned teaching position over every last magical of note in the entire nation? _And he was turned down._

Thus began two decades where he wandered Europe, learning Dark Magic. He learned and mastered them all: blood rituals; parselmagic; necromancy, specifically the creation and maintenance of Inferi; the Unforgivables; demon and dark creature subjugation; a smattering of voodoo; and, most importantly, Horcruxes.

He had already created one: the diary, with the death of the muggleborn Myrtle. Before long, he created many more, paving the pathway to the most magically powerful number: seven.

He returned to his Knights of Walpurgis, rechristened them the Death Eaters, and set out to take control of Wizarding Britain. And it was going so well, too.

Then, the prophecy.

His loyal servant, the Potions Master Severus Snape, had overheard the Seer Sybill Trelawney give a prophecy to Dumbledore at the Hog's Head in Hogsmeade. He immediately returned to give the worrying news to the Dark Lord.

_"M-my Lord!"_

_ "What is it, Snape?" The Dark Lord demanded, waving a hand in a silent gesture. The other Death Eaters of the Inner Circle swept out of the Throne Room, leaving him alone with his spy._

_ "A prophecy, my Lord. I overheard a Divination Mistress applicant give it to..." he swallowed nervously. "Dumbledore. All I heard was:_

_ "'The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...'_

_ "There's more, I think, my Lord. But he set up a silencing charm before I could hear. This was moments ago, my Lord."_

Then the first night of Samhain came: he killed James Potter; offered Lily Potter the chance to live; then he murdered her, too. He attempted to off the fifteen-month-old shifter child named Harry Potter, but the _Avada Kedavra_ rebounded.

His last thought?

_"I wonder if the prophecy was a fake."_

Thus, the Horcrux.

_Harry Potter. My name is Harry Potter. I never knew..._ I tasted the name on my lips, chewing on the words and whispering them in the silent darkness of the closet. It was a (predominantly) male name and, while my metamorph talent was advanced enough to switch even genders with a thought (explaining why they assumed me to be a male in the first place), I much preferred female.

A pause.

_I don't like it. My new name is much better._

With the fifty-five years of memories from the fragment of the Dark Lord, my mind had rapidly developed to that of a fully functioning adult. Humans are, at their core, adaptable creatures: I had familiarized myself with a horrible and depraved existence as the slave of the Dursleys, and now I had changed once again. I was now an adult in a child's body.

Luckily for me, the Black Family carries the recessive metamorph trait. With the fresh muggleborn blood from Lily Potter, the shifter ability was brought to the forefront. I already had years of practice with it, and decades ago Riddle had read a wizard's journal on the talent; aging myself should be no problem.

_After all, how else was I to resurrect the Dark Lord?_

Decision made, I set to work shifting into a seventeen-year-old woman. I couldn't bear to be anything but beautiful: vibrant emerald eyes; inky and silky smooth raven waist-length hair; creamy white satin skin; a height no greater than five feet, six inches with a lean, healthy build; and a c-cup, not too large and not too small.

The process was agonizing, and the seconds trickled by like hours. I was careful to swallow my screams, not wanting to awaken the resident demons I call family. (My childish, unrequited love perished in the face of the adulthood and darkness I was propelled into; no longer would I be their slave.

My Master was waiting for me, after all.

Twice more I suffered through the torture of a magical inheritance, but the Horcrux was satisfied with my pledge of allegiance and didn't attack. Why would he, when I was going to resurrect him regardless?

I drew upon Riddle's knowledge of wandless magic, and transfigured my rags into a proper witch's robe. The silky cloth had an emerald green, Slytherin base, and a silver hem. The clothing was tight and accented my curves, and the coloring matched my natural, gleaming eyes. It took a couple of tries to transfigure, but was completed before long.

I acquired Lord Voldemort's talent for warding, and I could taste the wards surrounding the house: monitoring charms; blood wards; anti-house elf wards; anti-apparition and -portkey jinxes; owl redirection charms; mild confundus jinxes; and compulsion charms.

Taking a closer look at the compulsion charms, I narrowed my eyes in displeasure. Whoever set these up – Twinkles himself, if I didn't miss my guess – _wanted_ my relatives to hate me, and prevented me from just packing up and leaving. I was... _irritated..._ to say the least.

My features set in an apathetic, aristocratic visage, I smirked when Petunia Dursley smashed a fist against my door, unlocking it and shouting obscenities. I opened the wooden door, smirk growing at her baffled and bewildered face.

I flicked my wrist, casting a minor, wandless banishment. Her neck snapped and she fell to the floor, dead.

Two more wandless spells, and the cousin and uncle speechless in the kitchen joined their fallen family matriarch beyond the veil.

As I gazed upon the lifeless forms of the family who had shown me so much cruelty, I couldn't help but wonder at the complete lack of emotion flowing through me.

_Shouldn't I feel satisfaction? Glee? Disappointment? _

_ Shouldn't I feel something?_

As I turned and Apparated with a _crack, _the thought that I had inherited not only Tom Riddle's parselmouth and warding talent, but his sociopathic tendencies as well, wandered through my mind. The thought didn't bother me like I thought it would.

* * *

_"Dovie'andi se tovya sagain._

_ "It is time to roll the dice."_

As I closed the latch to the silver pocket watch, only one thought raced through my mind.

_I would have never guessed that._

Amused, I strode through the crowded and merry Diagon Alley and turned into Gringotts. I ignored the goblin guards, stalking into the imposing, white building and to an open teller. I licked my lips and ran a tongue over my sharpened and serpentine incisors, and a moment later the goblin spoke.

"Welcome to Gringotts, bleeding human, state your name and business and try not to waste my time." His voice was rough, raspy; it suited his equally ugly face.

"Harry Potter, and I'd like to speak with an accounts manager."

At this, the goblin looked up at me and raised an eyebrow. His lips curled into a disbelieving smirk. "Of course you are, and I'm Merlin incarnate. Let me lead you to the Goblin Leader, Ragnok, who – between you and me – is the bastard son of Mordred and Albus Dumbledore."

I couldn't help but release a smirk as his amusing words summoned a flare of mirth in my throat. I followed him as the goblin led me through a warren of passageways, laughing harshly to himself and rubbing his hands together. He rapped thrice on a large, stone door, which opened magically. I followed him in.

"And who is this, Sharptooth?" An aged, white-haired goblin questioned. He was even uglier than the teller, which made me wonder how exactly goblins select their leader. Do they have a reverse-beauty pageant?

"Another Harry Potter impersonator. Wonder how foolish they think we are – she doesn't _look_ like a seven-year-old male."

"I assume I'm here for a blood test? And if I am not who I claim to be, you'll kill me?" I mused, flicking a lock of raven hair behind my ear.

"That's right, human," Sharptooth grinned. He pulled a strip of parchment, a rustic knife, and a bowl of potion from a nearby drawer, setting them down on a round table in the center of the room. He held a hand over the potion, murmuring a smattering of words in Gobbledegook before turning to me. "Three drops of blood, then we get to kill you. No backing out now, idiot girl."

"I wouldn't dream of it," I drawled, striding calmly over to the bowl. I fingered the aged ritual dagger and ran it down my wrist. A stream of blood trailed down my smooth, satin skin, dripping thrice into the bowl of inky black potion. A moment later, the magic of the dagger healed the bleeding wound.

The potion shined white before rapidly darkening to an unappealing, slate gray. The goblin cackled and poured the thick mixture onto the crinkled parchment. Moments later, two family trees blazed into existence onto the thick parchment. Underneath the left tree, the following words shone crimson:

_Name: Harry James Potter_

_ Race: Human (metamorph)_

_ Sex: Unknown (metamorph)_

_ Age: 7 years, 0 months, 0 days_

_ Father: James Charlus Potter_

_ Mother: Lily Potter nee Evans_

_ Talents: Metamorph; Parselmouth_

_ Holdings: Potter Vault; Peverell Chamber; Harry Potter Trust Vault_

_ Land: Potter Cottage (Godric's Hollow); Potter Manor (Northern Britain); Peverell Hideaway (Ireland)_

_ Titles: Heir Apparent to The Noble House of Potter_

And to the right of the Potter Tree, which was even more surprising to the already shocked and gaping Sharptooth, read the following in shining crimson:

_Name: Tom Marvolo Riddle_

_ Race: Human _

_ Sex: Male_

_ Age: 55 years (62 years)_

_ Father: Tom Riddle, Sr._

_ Mother: Merope Riddle nee Gaunt_

_ Talents: Parselmouth_

_ Holdings: Slytherin Chamber; Gaunt Vault_

_ Land: Slytherin Manor (unknown); Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (Britain; tentative)_

_ Titles: None_

Needless to say, the goblins were most helpful after that display.

* * *

I stood before a great, onyx cauldron, inside of which an inky black potion swirled angrily. A whispering breeze snaked through the broken trees in the graveyard outside Little Hangleton, and the starlight shined down to earth. The soft luminescence was more than enough to illuminate the workings of the dark ritual.

I smiled, excited; for today was the beginning of the prophesied Black Ascendance.

It had taken me well over two months to prepare the base ingredients of the Regeneration Potion. It called for rare and expensive ingredients not sold in any common store, legal or otherwise. It was... _difficult_ to track down the basilisk venom, gorgon fang, phoenix tears, and other arcane ingredients. Especially since they had to be prepared _just right._

_ "Bone of the father, unknowingly given, you will renew your son!" _I incanted, dropping the white skeletal remains into the black cauldron. The fiery sparks sizzling above the cauldron deepened to a poisonous blue as the white bone was dissolved into the dark, corrosive potion. I smiled proudly; the Horcrux within me quivered in excitement.

_"Flesh of the servant, willingly sacrificed, you will revive your master!"_ My chanting didn't halt as I unsheathed my wand (holly, supple, eleven inches, phoenix feather core) and aimed the wood at my left wrist. I licked my lips in nervous excitement, drawing a drop of blood from my sharpened incisors. A wordless cry of _Diffindo,_ and my hand dropped into the onyx cauldron. _Thank the Baron for pain-dampening charms. _The sparks gleamed burning red, flaring into life.

_ "Blood of the enemy, forcibly taken, you will resurrect your foe!"_ The crimson blood of the comatose Frank Longbottom, which I had easily taken right under the eyes of the medical staff at Saint Mungo's, dripped freely into the cauldron. The fire rose, blinding white, as the dark potion took effect.

The flesh of a servant served a dual function; it acted as a vessel for the Horcrux within me, while also fitting a fragment of my soul into his, a faux Horcrux in all but name. With that, there was no need to track down the wraith of the Dark Lord Voldemort and enact the ritual over him. The soul fragment residing in my body was more than enough for the ritual.

As the Dark Lord rose from the black cauldron, his body an exact copy as it was that fateful Halloween day, I flexed my metamorph powers to regrow my hand. In any normal instance, the ability of a metamorph isn't enough to heal even a papercut; but powered by most of my magical core, the healing was simple. It was nowhere near as efficient as the proper healing spells, but I had no knowledge of the gentler arts.

When the Dark Lord stepped out of the onyx cauldron, upright on unsteady legs, I dropped to a kneel before him. I raised a hand to my heart and lowered my head, eyes gazing at the earth in front of Riddle. I licked my lips, and spoke.

"Cloak, my Lord?"

"...Yes." The Dark Lord spoke, speaking for the first time in six years. I rose to my feet, height a solid twelve inches shorter than my Lord's. I conjured a heavy, satin black cloak, long enough to trail down to his knees. Knowing better than to walk behind Lord Voldemort, I held it out to him, allowing him to dress himself.

"I was able to procure your wand, my Lord. It was in a vault beneath the Ministry." I held out his yew, thirteen and a half inches, phoenix feather core wand to him. It was surprisingly easy to acquire; I took the opportunity to utilize Legilimency against the guards surrounding the Hall of Mysteries during my mission there six weeks back.

"Good work," the Dark Lord commended me, taking the wand and transfiguring the cloak into regal, Slytherin green robes. He eyed me curiously, likely attempting to divine my identity. "Who are you, loyal servant?"

"My name is Madison Auriel Grey," I began, speaking clearly. I had dropped back down to a kneel, face turned downwards. My raven hair hung in front of me, tinged a scarlet red with excitement. "That is not my birth name, however. Before I tell you what that was, I'd like to explain that the prophecy you heard was incorrect."

"Explain."

"Six weeks ago, I snuck into the Hall of Mysteries. It was the day I acquired your wand. I found the prophecy you are featured in, and it explains why Twinkles – sorry, Albus Dumbledore – would want you to kill Harry Potter." I paused, licking my lips. "The prophecy reads:

_"'The living shudder and the World stills, as the Black Ascension draws near... For the Dark Lord has Fallen and the Nightingale has Risen, she whose song pierces the Veil... Born to those who have thrice defied Him, born as the Seventh Month dies... And the Dark Lord will mark his Right Hand as his equal. And One must perish for the Other to fall, for neither can die while the Other survives... The One with the Power to Resurrect the Dark Lord will be born as the Seventh Month dies..._

"You see, my Lord, my name used to be Harry Potter."

"I... see," the Dark Lord murmured, pacing back and forth to adapt to his new body. His mind was running fast, working to understand all the myriad implications inferred in the prophecy. After several long minutes, he turned to me. "Rise, Madison Grey. Tell me what has happened in the years since my fall."

"Yes, my Lord," I began. "That was six years ago. When your Killing Curse rebounded, you had accidentally forged a Horcrux, with me as the vessel. Two months back, on my seventh birthday, a curious event took place during my magical inheritance. The fragment of your soul fought with mine, and during the battle your memories spilled into my mind. As such, I can recall your entire life.

"The memories aged my mind, turning me into an adult in all but body. I utilized my talent as a metamorph to age that, as well. I then killed the muggle relatives Albus Dumbledore forced me to live with. I immediately set to work resurrecting you, my Lord." I took a deep breath, readying my magic. "It would honor me to swear a Wizard's Oath of unbreakable loyalty to you, my Lord."

"You may," the Dark Lord spoke. I could see the tension in his shoulders ease at my request. After all, I knew _everything; _I could have easily destroyed his Horcruxes and ended his undying life. And the line in the prophecy about his Right Hand was sounding in his mind, no doubt. "I will also give you my Mark."

The agony I felt when he pressed his wand's tip to my left forearm easily surpassed the pain I underwent during the magical inheritance. Twice I nearly blacked out, the pain was so excruciating. When he released the pressure, a modified Slytherin green Dark Mark rested on my smooth, satin skin. Beneath the sigil lay the words in broken Latin: _"manus dexterus de deus."_

"You word will be second only to mine, little nightingale," the Dark Lord spoke. His reference to the prophecy made my spirit soar. I rather liked the feeling. "Now, the oath."

"I, Madison Auriel Grey, formerly Harry James Potter, swear on my magic, life, and memory to follow the Dark Lord Voldemort, formerly Tom Marvolo Riddle, with the entirety of my being. I will keep his secrets hidden unless given permission to speak them; I will carry out his will to the best of my abilities; I will refrain from harming him or his cause, whether through action or silence, at all costs. So mote it be."

"So mote it be." The Dark Lord smiled, a truly bloodthirsty visage. "Very good, little nightingale. Now, has no one else attempted to resurrect me? Has none of my servants so much as tried?"

"Not that I am aware of, my Lord. I know several have been captured and incarcerated in Azkaban without your guidance, such as the Lestranges. Others have plead Imperious Curse and bribed the officials, and were let off more or less clean: Lucius Malfoy and Yaxley come to mind. Some have even sold out their brethren for a lesser sentence, like Karkaroff.

"There is no unity among them. They have scattered to the winds."

The Dark Lord sighed. "Summon the Death Eaters. Let us speak with the disloyal."

I pressed the tip of my wand to my very own Dark Mark; I watched as the black smoke of the Death Eaters arrived one by one;

_And let the Black Ascendance begin._

* * *

**A/N: While making Potter heir to the Founders is interesting and all the first several times, being last of the Peverells is more than enough for me. She's surprisingly poor for being the sole heiress to such an ancient line, but she doesn't want to touch the Potter gold - taking what funds Dumbledore hasn't bled dry would tip him off to her rise. Anyways, hope you liked it, I found it deep in a miscellaneous file on my laptop and felt like continuing it. Sacrifice and Crossroads (once I get over this writer's block on Chap Five) are also at the top of my task list.**

**Toodles.**

**Whispers out.**


	2. Last Of The Peverells

_Black Ascendance_

_by Whispers Of A Mad God_

_Chapter Two; Last Of The Peverells_

* * *

**23:30, October 1, 1987;**

**Little Hangleton, England;**

**Hangleton Graveyard, Forum;**

**The Nightingale;**

* * *

_"Summon the Death Eaters. Let us speak with the disloyal."_

_ I pressed the tip of my wand to my very own Dark Mark; I watched as the black smoke of the Death Eaters arrived one by one;_

_ And let the Black Ascendance begin._

With a lazy swish of yew the Dark Lord conjured a throne, strategically placed in the center of the barren graveyard, carved from white marble with engravings of elderberries. He reclined into his deluxe masterpiece, his left limb relaxing on the armrest as his right held aloft his wand. He studied it with careful intent, as if the gathering of Death Eaters was beneath him, and he would much rather be at home reading a good book.

"My Lord," I began, gaze down-turned and standing a respectful distance away. "Would you prefer me in the Death Eater raiment?" I was wearing fitted Slytherin green Acromantula silk combat robes, with a black lace hem and lotus spirals around the sleeves. While dressy and appealing to my (admittedly) overgrown sense of vanity, the cloth ensemble was still highly mobile and had a series of runes stitched into the fabric for protection.

"No," the Dark Lord mused. He waved me over with a casual movement of his hand. "On this armrest, here." I swallowed thickly, yet strode confidently over to the throne before alighting on the right-hand armrest directly in front of and to the side of the Dark Lord. I crossed my legs, assuming a visage of nonchalance, and while logically I knew the Dark Lord favored me I was still highly aware of his power, and would require time to become truly comfortable around his staggering aura. "You are my right hand; better they understand they have lost rank to a newcomer now rather than later. They will not attempt to murder you after the fact, this way. Most likely. Feel free to discipline them if they do."

"Yes, my Lord."

That was the very moment the first of the Death Eaters began to arrive, dressed in Death Eater black with bone-white masks already in place, immediately dropping into a kneel several respectful yards away from him. I could feel their eyes burning into my skull, full of curiosity and distaste and wonder. Several, if I didn't miss my guess, were also filled with lust. I was certainly beautiful, almost unnaturally so; I couldn't help but indulge my vanity with my talent as a metamorph, a latent sense of arrogance rising from the shackled depths of my mind.

That being said, there was a reason I chose to resurrect him here, and a reason the Dark Lord decided to summon his forces to such a dreary place. For while the vast majority of Death Eater meetings took place during formal balls at the high-class manor of one of his servants, he was still their Lord, and when discipline needed to be meted out he exercised his flair for the dramatic.

He had cultivated a reputation for being cruel and unreasonable among his enemies, but among his allies, it was well known that he was cruel but very reasonable and actually possessed of a rapier intelligence capable of slicing through excuses and bluffs alike. His primary forces consisted of pureblood lords and the occasional lady who all had hundreds of years of bad history with one another, and he had no reason to antagonize them further. And while he was eager to fling around Cruciatus Curses like a Hufflepuff first year would tickling charms, he only did so to sever the threads of disrespect and insolence among his _very_ tight ship.

He had lured them to his side with promises of power and renown both socially and economically, and he wasn't going to keep them by ditching the carrot and wielding dual sticks. And while he made it very clear that his regime was a meritocracy where efficiency bred higher rank and blood status, social rank, and personal wealth was irrelevant when it came to lethality, he still relied far more on rewards and rhetoric than he ever did on torture. Fear is a great motivator to cull the masses but not to train the few; no, for top Death Eaters positive reinforcement always produced higher results.

These men were risking their lives to further the pureblood agenda, and the Dark Lord was intelligent enough to realize they were far more likely to surpass the Light when his Rooks, Bishops, and Knights did not needlessly fear their own King. Respect, awe, adoration, and – yes – a pinch of fear forms a cocktail much more effective in motivating his forces then terror ever has. He needs his Inner Circle to be creative and focused on outright success and the rewards bred from it, not fearing failure and the torture that would befall them. Such an admittedly useful emotion would only cripple his most skilled henchmen, for all that it is capable of crushing the delusions of grandeur plaguing the grunts, he needs Icarus' wax wings to be flying soundly: not too close to the sun but not drowning in the sea, either.

And so when the Dark Lord rose from his marble throne and strode over to his forces, he did not lead with the Torture Curse, no matter how badly he desired to punish those who did not bother to search for him. Instead he stalked in a slow circle around them. He looked upon them with disappointment and apathy. At last, he spoke.

"Six years," he began. "Six years, and did any of you look for me?" His stride brought him to a kneeling John Avery, Jr. He leaned in close, his Dark aura causing the hapless Death Eater to tremble. "Or are all the faithful in Azkaban, because they refused to hide? Not the greatest example of Slytherin cunning, that, so I can understand why you would seek to be free. So that you may have the strength and resources to find me, and be of use to me, and be rewarded once we seize control of Wizarding Britain. But, not a one of you even _tried..."_

I watched in rapt admiration as the Dark Lord's polished oratory skills were put to the grindstone, not at all rusty despite six years of dust and weather. He maintained the fragile balance of respect, fear, and devotion, punishing them for their disloyalty without breaking them of their remaining adoration. He did not cast a single spell; no, physical pain is but one of the targets to wound, and not nearly the most effective.

He shamed them instead. He tore down the Death Eater chain of command, placing each and every one of them on the same, ground level as the others. For the pride of a pureblood is their most heavily guarded possession, and with whispered accusations and backhanded compliments he mauled the pride of each and every one of them.

And there I reclined, on the perch of his throne, the woman who resurrected the Dark Lord and was now their direct superior. My very presence was a slap to the face of every last kneeling Death Eater. He did not punish them: no, he had nothing to gain from such an action. He fed their rivalry, their ambition, like gifting bloodhounds a scent and commanding them to hunt.

They would be ruthless, now. They would do everything in their power to please the Dark Lord, and carry out their tasks with lightning alacrity and pinpoint accuracy. They saw the opportunity to become indispensable to their leader, and it was within their grasp; all they had to do was seize it.

They wouldn't let a newcomer like me have the ear of the Dark Lord, no; that was _their_ right, _their_ inheritance, _their_ reward. The terror they trembled under when they first arrived evaporated, dissolving under the strain of desire, ambition, and greed. The Dark Lord was a master manipulator, and he dissected these aristocratic purebloods into base emotions, desires, and instincts, and he played their strings like a skilled puppeteer. The marionettes danced to their tunes beautifully.

_This._ This was why I resurrected the Dark Lord. Despite having all his knowledge, all his experience, I lacked the skill and talent to recreate these feats of genius. I was content to be his Right Hand, to follow his orders to the letter, to realize his dreams for Wizarding Britain. He was the Black King, I was the Black Queen, and all the kneeling Death Eaters were soon-to-be Rooks, Bishops, and Knights.

I had raised him mere minutes ago, and he had already rewarded me for my contribution to the cause; with the Second's Mark he had placed me above all the rest. By commanding me to keep wearing my combat robes rather than Transfigure them into a Death Eater raiment, he had subtly snubbed his decades-long allies. _You could have had this rank, this prestige,_ he as good as shouted at them. _But your inaction cost you everything. Will you make the same mistake again?_

It wasn't his words that made him such a skilled and charismatic leader: it was everything else. The placement. The setting. The time of the night. The black cauldron lying mere yards away, still warm from the brazier. The throne, and my position atop the armrest. Everything came together to paint a painfully clear message to his forces.

I had never seen anything more beautiful.

"On the thirty-first of December," the Dark Lord continued, completing yet another circuit around the kneeling Death Eaters. He strode over to his marble throne, reclining in it and running serpentine fingers through my thick, raven locks, tinged blue with contentment and joy. I was over my earlier apprehension, and now enjoyed his presence and affections, much like a kitten for her master: a metaphor I did not particularly mind. "We break into Azkaban and free our imprisoned brothers and sisters."

The Death Eaters cheered; abandoned were decorum and grace. The most senior of his forces, those who were Marked, preferred instead the wild joy of the impending war. A war we would win. They had waited far too long for a good, bloody fight. And the goal of this particular venture only made the future victory all the sweeter.

"The attack on Azkaban will be led by my Right Hand," he announced, tilting his head in my direction. "Madison Auriel Grey, last of the Peverells. Her word is law, second only to mine. Disrespect her, and her retribution will be..." he licked his dry, snake-like lips. "Most unpleasant. Everything she may afflict against you as a suitable punishment, up to and including death, is completely sanctioned."

That stilled the jubilant Dark Arts practitioners arrayed, kneeling, around the graveyard. They did not like my placement above them, partly because of their greed and ambition, partly because I have yet to prove myself to them. The resurrection of our Lord is one thing; succeeding in this venture to Azkaban another entirely. I will have to excel in this assignment if I want to earn their respect. At the moment, I walk the knife's edge, my platform created entirely from fear and borrowed authority.

"Tell me," the Dark Lord inquired. "What has Karkaroff been doing, these days?"

"He is the Headmaster of the Durmstrang Institute, my Lord," Lucius Malfoy responded, never raising his gaze from the earth.

"Interesting," my master hummed in thought. A long moment passed. "By selling out his brothers, he has made me very... _angry._ But control over Durmstrang is not something we can just pass over. Crabbe, Goyle, track him down. Tell him I may... _allow... _him to live, but he is on _very, very thin ice._ He will appoint Nott Sr. to a teaching position. I do not care which one. And he will await further orders. The three of you are dismissed."

Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle Sr. rose from their kneel on shaky legs before Disapparating with a sharp _crack_ and a pillar of inky black smoke. All was silent in the graveyard as the Dark Lord stroked my blue-black hair, kinky strands twisting around his fingers. Seeming to make a decision, he spoke once more, silky smooth voice resounding through the graveyard.

"The element of surprise is a boon we must not squander; at this moment, we have all the time in the world to conquer Wizarding Britain. When the time for raids comes again, I want our forces to be in top fighting shape. I desire the creation of a Death Eater examination gauntlet, for both fresh recruits and veterans alike, along with a six-month training regime. Much like the set-up the Auror Department has. Dark Arts; physical agility; sharp reflexes; electives for wardbreaking and infiltration; basic knowledge of Dark Creatures; knowledge of known Light wizards; and the like. Alecto and Amycus Carrow, you will begin the creation of just such a program. Dismissed."

The brother and sister Death Eaters ascended from their kneel, bowing respectfully to the Dark Lord before Disapparating gleefully. A huge responsibility had been placed on their shoulders, that of teaching the Death Eaters the combat arts and necessary Dark curses, so that we may take over Wizarding Britain. For while the Unforgivables are fairly simple, they are not the most efficient; and all the magical potential in the world is wasted when the wizard in question is too slow to evade a Stunner to the back. The Carrows were a good choice for such a position, and in time they will be given more aids.

"Walden Macnair, you are currently in charge of recruitment. Peter Pettigrew will report to you. Compile a list of all the potential Death Eaters, both in this country and without, and track down each and every one of them. That being said, do not approach them; just observe and notate. I expect an updated report every second Saturday. Do not delay. Dismissed."

Wormtail and his new boss Disapparated from the graveyard, Macnair looking viciously pleased and his new assistant substantially less so. I approved of the decision, not that the Dark Lord required or even desired my insight, as the rat was far too opportunistic for such a low-profile position. While he has his Slytherin moments, they are few and far between. (Not once did it pass through my mind that I ought to hate my parents' betrayer; considering I pledged undying loyalty to their murderer, such a thing mattered naught to me.)

"I want spies in the Auror Office. Yaxley, congratulations on your admission's acceptance into their ranks. Lucius Malfoy, make sure it happens. Set him up with fake identities, with parchment trails down to his grandparent's births. New face, new name, same political views. Fit him into a supporter's family to make it airtight. You'll be going through the Aurors' training regime; ace it or you'll be Grey's new pet. You are dismissed."

When the new Auror-to-be Disapparated with a _crack_ and a plume of black smoke, only the Dark Lord, Lucius Malfoy, Avery, and I remained. The rest of the Death Eaters not pursuing their intriguing new missions were either in Azkaban, defected, Severus Snape, unMarked, or dead. _(After all, the Dark Mark is an honor bestowed upon only the most senior of the Dark Lord's forces.) _The four of us were silent as the grave for long minutes. Eventually, the Dark Lord spoke.

"Avery, your son is a fourth year student at Hogwarts now, yes?"

"That is correct, my Lord. His name's Jericho. He's a Ravenclaw, but as Dark as they come." Avery seemed surprised yet pleased that the Dark Lord would remember something from his Death Eater's personal life, even after all these years. I wasn't surprised. It was one of the hallmarks of a true leader.

"And I assume the ghost, Binns, is still teaching History of Magic."

"That is also correct, my Lord."

"And that you have scored an Outstanding on your History of Magic NEWT?"

"Yes, my Lord," Avery replied, further pleased his master knows so much. He realized the revelation of the job the Dark Lord is referring to just as my master verbalized it aloud.

"Your son has a mission to perform," the Dark Lord continued. "He will exorcise the ghost, and you will apply for the position. Dumbledore will most likely accept your admission; during the semester he has only a week to find a suitable Professor else the Ministry will assign him one. If he chooses someone else, said applicant will be... _dissuaded._ That is also your purview. Understood?"

"Yes, my Lord. The students will love me. They hate the ghost." Avery was clearly excited for the task; children were important in pureblood culture, especially since the vast majority have so few. More time with his son will only be a blessing. Not to mention the control he now has over Wizarding Britain's youth as a whole.

"Very good. Dismissed." Avery Disapparated and the Dark Lord turned his attention to the only Death Eater still in the graveyard save for myself. "Rise, Lucius. Tell me. Who is the Defense Master at Hogwarts School?"

"The Professor changes every year, my Lord." Malfoy rose gracefully, dropping into a semi-bow of respect, hand at his chest and eyes on the ground. He always had been one of the Dark Lord's favorites, judging from my memories of him, and I could see why; only the Dark Lord was exempt from my worldly apathy at this moment in time, but Lucius Malfoy could become important to me, if I allowed him to become so.

"So my curse is still going strong," my master wondered aloud. I saw Malfoy twitch in what was probably surprised amusement, likely not having believed the rumors that the Dark Lord had actually cursed the position. "I have plans for that position, but those will be fulfilled next year. Yes. Lucius, I assume you have on your person a spare portkey to your manor?"

"Of course, my Lord."

"Give it to Grey, here. She will be spending an inordinate amount of time at Malfoy Manor for the foreseeable future, as she will be working directly over you. You will do everything in your power to aid her. She tells you to jump, you don't ask _'how high?'_ you just jump and hope she has mercy on you. Am I clear?"

"Crystal, my Lord." He snatched a silver necklace with a pendant depicting the crescent moon from a mokeskin pouch and tossed it underhand to me. I caught it with a flourish and tucked it into a hidden pocket in my combat robes. "The activation keyword is _'celeste.'"_

"Dismissed. Expect her momentarily." As Malfoy Disapparated, the Dark Lord turned to me, never having ceased toying with my black hair, tinged royal blue with happiness as it was. "Severus Snape is approaching. What would you do, if you were me? He is the one who ferried to me the fake prophecy."

"Legilimize him, my Lord. Mind rape." My response was immediate, having already come up with a plan the moment the Potions Master failed to show for the impromptu meeting. It was a bit more complicated then I made it out to seem, though, I'll admit.

"And if he truly is on our side? Such a thing could push him to Dumbledore. I don't have another Potions Master of such skill in my ranks. I cannot afford to lose him."

"You would be able to be absolutely sure of his loyalty, my Lord. If he works for Dumbledore, we can make an example of him, denying the Light Lord of his Potions Master in the process. And if he truly is loyal to you, my Lord? I would Obliviate him afterwards, of not only the meeting but the entire week. He would not recall even the Mark darkening. You could claim a Death Eater found him in his summer home when he failed to show up at your meeting, unconscious. He would recognize his symptoms of brutal legilimency for what it is, and you could subtly blame Dumbledore, further cementing his loyalty to you."

"What a curious plan. How, exactly, would you go about 'subtly' blaming Dumbledore?"

"Potions, my Lord. Loyalty and gullibility potions, tied to your magical signature. He would recognize the taste, but not if he is unconscious when he drinks them, and they are immediately followed by water. He would come to the conclusion on his own, and believe it all the more strongly for it."

"I approve. Now, Severus nears. Dismissed, Grey."

I dropped off the edge of the marble throne, bowed low to my master, and Disapparated with a _crack_ and the customary column of inky black haze.

_I have a jailbreak to plan._

* * *

**1:30, October 8, 1987;**

**Underneath London, England;**

**Wizarding Registration Office, Third Floor;**

**Lucius Abraxas Malfoy;**

* * *

"You better have a good reason for dragging me out of my office, Lucius!" The Minister puffed, but seemed pleased; no doubt he was eager to be away from the more... _menial_ aspects of his job. For all that Cornelius Fudge crowed the perks of his top-of-the-line position, the work itself had always been an uncomfortable burden for him. As such, it wasn't much of a surprise when he had developed a tendency for slipping his stacks of parchmentwork onto his Assistant's desk. That being said, he was an excellent peace-time Minister, in that he hardly ever did his job and allowed less-then-noble politicians (such as myself) to work the system. The Minister continued his prattle a moment later. "I'm a busy man, you know! Can't leave the country alone for a day, else it'll go up in flames. You know how it is."

_Yes, I do,_ I internally mused. Aloud, I spoke different words entirely. "But I have a _dear, dear_ friend who had always wanted to meet such an upstanding Minister; why, she's been a bit of a fan ever since you slipped through that Foreign Relations bill last Spring. She was worried such an outstanding piece of legislation would have been walled by the Light Bloc."

"Oh, really? Hmm! I always did think such a finagling of mine should be appreciated more!" The Wizarding Minister puffed up at this, the peacock; he was vulnerable as always to a honeyed tongue. Just like all politicians, he had a weakness in his shields. Unlike the smart politicians, his could be breached with soothing words and empty promises. He was, and forever will be, the ultimate puppet Minister. "Who is this clever witch, Lucius my friend, if I may ask?"

"Why don't you ask her yourself? She's right over there." And it was true; codename Nightingale was speaking smoothly with the young wizard behind the desk to the Wizarding Registration Office, charming him and earning herself yet another member in her rapidly growing British fan club. The wizard barely out of Hogwarts was one flirtatious sentence away from having love potion drip out of his lips.

Not that I could blame him; I was more-or-less a happily married man, and I was still dangerously attracted to my direct superior in my 'extracurricular activities.' Her silver and black witch's robe was tight in all the right places, lace spiraling around her sleeves and hem, chained silver locket dangling between – if I didn't miss my guess – slightly larger then normal breasts. Her buckled dragonhide boots were heeled, giving her an extra three inches. The dark ensemble only made her _Avada Kedavra _green eyes appear all the more bright.

"Uncle Lucius!" She gasped, according to the plan I (grudgingly) agreed to. Her portrayal as my niece in all things public now, tomorrow, and forevermore only made my unholy attraction all the more awkward; thereby ensuring the fact that I'll _never, ever_ let her know. "You came! I apologize I couldn't meet you at the dining parlor- I'm having a spot of trouble with my registration."

As she neared me on those heeled boots of hers, I opened my arms and allowed her to hug me. Thankfully I was angled away from the Minister, as despite my years of pureblood etiquette courses from my tutors I think acting _"tender and loving"_ was a bit beyond me. The only person who saw me was the clerk behind the Registration desk, and he was too busy jealously glaring a hole into my forehead to notice. I could tell why he was feeling such envy as, considering the tightness of Grey's hug, it would be impossible _not_ to notice.

_By the Bloody Baron. I need to get home to Narcissa quick._

"Of course I came," I grit out behind clenched teeth. Nightingale _must've known_ how I'd be feeling when she came to me with this thrice-cursed script. _After I catch up with Narcissa, I will be obliterating a dozen training dummy's in the Armory. Curse her. _"I wouldn't miss our rendezvous for the world."

"Uncle! You didn't tell me you were with the Minister!" She unlatched herself from my person, seemingly Apparated over to Cornelius Fudge (despite my knowledge that such a thing was impossible), and hugged him too. "I didn't mean to take time out of your day, Minister Fudge! But Uncle Lucius knows how much I've wanted to meet you."

"It's no problem at all, no problem at all..." the significantly shorter wizard wheezed, catching his breath after the sudden display of affection. "I didn't, ah, I didn't catch your name."

"I'm so sorry! I just get so carried away at times, Minister. My name is Madison Auriel Grey."

"The last of the Peverells!" The Minister gasped, before realizing what he had said could be construed as rude. Waiting until he began to apologize, Grey cut him off with a light laugh.

"Everyone always says that. Was it in the _Daily Prophet,_ or something?"

"It was," I replied, smothering a smirk before it could quirk my lips. She had been the one who slipped it to Skeeter, after all. Oh, the harpy believed she was undercover, but everyone recognized the bitch. Grey had been bemoaning her lost childhood to the Blood War, how the rest of the surviving Peverells had been brutally murdered, and how she came to rest underneath my aegis to wait out the end of _"the awful bloodshed and strife." _Rita Skeeter's sympathetic article on _The_ _Tragedy of the Peverells _had been a masterpiece. "I'll let you read my copy tonight, when we return home. I had been wondering how the journalist heard your tale."

"Nevermind any of that, my dear," the Minister added, finally having recuperated from his near-death by asphyxiation. His politician's mind was spinning with ways to get Grey to back him publicly; it would no doubt do wonders for his approval ratings. There was a lot of positive media for my 'niece' at the moment, between the complimentary, tear-jerking article and the outstanding _Witch Weekly_ photo-shoot and interview earlier this week. Even I had a copy of that issue of the magazine; not that I'd let my wife know. "Whatever are you doing in the Wizarding Registration Office? Only newborns and foreigners come here, and then only once!"

"My mother thought it best I didn't get registered; then the Death Eaters wouldn't come for me, as they wouldn't know of my existence," Nightingale lied smoothly, a hint of melancholy in her voice. The Minister simpered right back. "By the time the war was over, they were all... well... _gone._ I hadn't even known I wasn't registered in the Ministry until I came here to take my NEWTs."

"That should be simple! Whatever is the hold-up?"

"Well, I already took the NEWTs in Transfiguration, Defense, Charms, Ancient Runes, and Arithmancy – O's all around, but Uncle Lucius always did hire the best tutors – and if I registered without a Department Head's signature I would have to retake them. It really is such a hassle, Minister, you-"

"What utter tripe! I'll give it my signature. You shouldn't have to worry about such things, dear girl!" And so the Minister waddled over to the desk, signing the parchmentwork thrice with the blood quill and a flourish each time. I couldn't hide my smirk this time. The plan had worked flawlessly.

Our goal had been threefold. The first was to endear Grey to the Minister, securing herself tightly in his bracket. Our Lord has entire reams of bills he wants passed in the Wizengamot, and I don't have the influence to ensure the survival of all of them. While I have plenty of power in both the Minister's ear and the Dark Bloc, the other two-thirds of the Wizengamot is beyond me. Which meant Grey had to worm her way into the Neutral Bloc, despite not having a House Seat (at the moment, anyways), while _also_ having the Minister's ear. The political sphere is nearly as important as the combat sphere in a war, enabling us to cripple our enemies without them ever knowing it, as well as achieve our goals from a different angle, so to speak. A head-on collision is one thing in this war, but a pincer attack is far more likely to succeed; the Dark will win, whether socially, politically, or in the fields of battle.

The second goal was to get the Minister's signature on Grey's registration forms. Whoever she had once been, it was clear her name was _not_ Madison Auriel Grey. And due to an ancient bylaw from all the way back in the fourteen hundreds, only those with an authority matching or superior to that of whoever signed the bottom line of a registration form may view said registration forms _and all associated documents._ By having the Minister sign off on it, it was _not_ so she wouldn't have to redo her NEWTs. It was so her identity, wealth, heritage, blood status, relations, history, _everything,_ couldn't be questioned by anyone but the Minister himself: not now, not tomorrow, not until the end of time. Better still, her children and her children's children will have this same protection. Usually, a civilian parent or guardian signs off on it, making the parchmentwork public property. That bit about a department head had been a lie.

Thirdly, is the simple fact that only twice does the signature need to be written. Once for the private copy, once for the ministry's records. The third had been a dragon handler's permit slyly slipped in. Now Grey and all those who work for her _(like... say... the Death Eaters)_ are allowed to keep, raise, and train dragons on their private property. And due to that same bylaw, only the Minister himself may access the permit; all the rest of the world can know is that it exists, not how to view it or nullify it.

I was thinking of surprising Draco with a Chinese Fireball egg for his birthday, come June. He always did want an actual dragon.

_Checkmate._


	3. Death's Very Own Cloak

_Black Ascendance_

_by Whispers Of A Mad God_

_Chapter Three; Death's Very Own Cloak_

* * *

**12:00, October 19, 1987;**

**Peverell Hideaway, Syndromeda Island, Ireland;**

**Trophy Room, First Floor;**

**The Nightingale;**

* * *

Peverell Hideaway, once a vacation home for my ancestors back in the seventeen hundreds, has lain abandoned for the greater part of two centuries. Found in the center of an unplottable lake in the southern stretches of Ireland, Syndromeda Island and the cottage therein have suffered the wear and tear of the elements all this time without rest. Only the steadfast protection of expertly cast wards have kept the small, three-bedroom Hideaway still standing at all.

The surrounding, nameless lake was home to magical creatures both rare and dangerous. A colony of mermen made the lake's bottom ground their home, and were constantly besieged by the waters' less friendly denizens. Not even the Peverells knew what all hid down in the lake's furthest depths, and while they have seen and made contact with several of the creatures, the rest were better left off well alone. Kelpies, viperfish, and water horses were nothing compared to the great sea serpents and the family of kraken, which were in turn tame to the rumor of the (thought extinct) venomous Atlantian Witherwing sea dragon.

The island itself was more peaceful than impressive, though, being approximately the size of Hogwarts School minus the surrounding land. Thick trees of magical ash and elder pierced the sky, growing unnaturally high and healthy, gorging themselves on the ambient magic from the ancient wards and surrounding creatures. On all sides save the west, the earth melded seamlessly into a sandy beach, the thick cloud of magic keeping the weather flawless and the waters cool.

And so it was on the western edge of Syndromeda Island that Peverell Hideaway was built. With a breathtaking view of the lake and the sunset over the cliffside, it had been the perfect location for the family's summer residence, despite their numbers being few and their wealth being scant. For while heritage and heirlooms were in abundance for the Peverells, centuries of bleeding their coffers dry and doing naught to replenish them had left the family lower middle class at best.

They didn't need money to ward the cottage and the island it rests on fit for the apocalypse, though. Warding had always been the Peverells' most adept family magic, and so arcane glyphs and runecraft from a thousand different languages dotted the earth both above the water level and below, transforming what had once been a potential tourist trap into perhaps one of the most well-defended locations in magical history. For while Hogwarts School, the Founders' Manors, and the Ministry of Magic may have power and talent behind their defenses, only the Peverells' had true expertise and skill. We were descended from the man who, when given the opportunity to ask for anything from Death himself, desired naught but a trusty Invisibility Cloak; survival was our mantra and our obsession both.

There was only one way onto Syndromeda Island. Boats and brooms who came near were subtly steered away, and those who powered through regardless were devastated by storming winds and the occasional thunder bolt, left to become dinner for the creatures hiding in the dark waters. Apparition and portkeys alike were strictly denied access with a blanket ban, powered by wards it would take fifty Dumbledores to power through, and too complex to be merely circumvented.

The only way to access the island at all was by way of one of the Peverells' most prized inventions, the Vanishing Cabinet. The wooden creations were masterfully fashioned into doorways, and all three of which were found in what became known as the Vanishing Room, and were surrounded by yet another round of paranoid precautions that would shock and awe even the famously pessimistic Mad-Eye Moody.

The first of these doorways was far more heavily guarded than the others, and led into a certain Space-Expanded trunk, which I was currently having Flinky – the lone, surviving Peverell house elf – renovate. The trunk was actually a dragonhide messenger bag, then called a courier's satchel, which was currently being dyed a classy green and silver combination. Being an artifact from the Peverells' richer days, it had not only the family's prized protections placed upon it, but contained seven rooms in all. Two were bedrooms, lavish yet elegant, with nightstands and closets and reclining chairs. There was also a fully-functioning kitchen; a restroom; a library of magic, both Dark and Light; a dueling-slash-training room, designed to weather even the book of Revelations, equipped with an armory of weaponry; and a common room, in which the Vanishing Doorway and the passages to the six other rooms could be found, complete with couches, tables, lounge chairs, and a pensieve. Needless to say, the Peverell Trunk was more portable home then storage area, and quickly became one of my favorite possessions.

The other doorway was an unknown, with no record of its destination anywhere. I tasked Flinky with boarding it up, as I did not desire a potential breach into my future inner sanctum, although doing so seemed pointless to me; it was already walled with brick and mortar on the other side. I wondered if, perhaps, the doorway led into a Peverell family ally's home, that mayhaps we fell out of grace with. I put the quandary into the back of my mind regardless.

It was through the third doorway, the Vanishing Door connecting Syndromeda Island with Gringotts' Peverell Chamber, that I adroitly stepped through, pausing purposefully once I have done so. Not desiring to be immolated with intent to murder by the automatic defense wards, I licked my lips and spoke the proper codephrase.

_"For it is in passing that we achieve Immortality."_ I took six calm, relaxed steps, crossing into the center of the Vanishing Room. The cottage recognized the blood flowing through me as that of a Peverell's, and while this may have been enough to satisfy any other family's Dark wards, this was not so for the refreshingly paranoid Peverells. It only cut down the five required passcodes into two. _"For it is through trial that we achieve Absolution."_

With a _click_ and an ancestor's feminine and magically copied voice saying _"welcome home, Mistress," _the traps disabled and I was free to glide into the cottage proper.

I hated it. The three bedrooms, the living room, the parlor; I hated them all. I had already contacted a dwarven clan hiding out in Wales to wreck the place and build a proper manor on its foundation. I had promised to pay two thousand galleons per dwarf, per year for their work, for a job with an estimated working time of two years, payment upon completion. I gladly swore a blood-oath to carry out my end of the bargain, despite having maybe fifteen hundred galleons left in my vault after purchasing the arcane ingredients for the Dark Lord's resurrection potion.

After all, if there aren't any dwarves left alive once their wages are due, I technically don't owe them anything. Idiots, all of them.

I'm thinking of calling my new residence upon Syndromeda Island the Grey Manor; not very clever or creative, but the rise of the Grey family has to start somewhere. I currently have little save for the heirlooms in Gringotts and a title-less heritage which, while admittedly impressive, grants me nothing save the pleasantries of the Wizarding elite. And while there are many rewards I am sure to gather over the course of my servitude to the Dark Lord, I do not wish to rely on those.

And so it was with tremendous glee and cruel vindication that I sought out Griphook alongside "Uncle" Lucius the day after my trip to the Ministry. I had flashed my all-access dragon handler's permit to the euphoric goblin, and together we began the process of buying out acres of land all across Britain in which to house dragons of all breeds and sizes. We quickly worked out a contract of even shares, where Lucius and I are paid fifty percent of the proceeds each not immediately going right back into the dragon farm and their handlers' paychecks. Within six months we will have everything up and running, eggs ready to hatch.

I won't be making any money off the dragons for a while, yet, though. Having had to finance the endeavor exclusively from Lucius' holdings, my cut will be heading straight into his wallet until I have covered half of the start-up costs. He was clever enough not to charge me any interest, however, as I am still his direct superior among the Death Eaters and, for all my burgeoning, sisterly love of the pureblood, will gladly Crucio him if his ambitions cross me over-much. That being said, it will be at least two years until my paychecks start coming in, and four years until a monopoly is formed on the various dragon parts for sell. No one else has such a limitless dragon handling permit as I do, after all.

Irregardless of the usual economics, the permit idea I slyly came up with has already paid dividends. The Dark Lord was as close to ecstatic as he is able to become, tasking Lucius and I with the birth and training of dragons for the upcoming war effort, and giving me a large amount of Dark Arts tomes from the Black Family Library in recompense. I had to cast a Space-Expansion Charm on the already Space-Expanded library of the Peverell Trunk just to fit it all. I then set to work forging my very own grimoire so I could read whatever I want, whenever I want.

A grimoire is the compilation of a witch's entire collection of knowledge. Every last journal, spellbook, and tome in the Peverell libraries, and now in the copied section of the Black library I own, is compressed into a pocket journal with the words _Nightingale's Book of Songs_ embossed in Slytherin green on the front. A grimoire works similarly to a Never-Ending Journal, except the pages contain nothing but a single, massive index, and with a verbal command will shift to show the writings of the book in question.

The creation of a grimoire is considered a Dark Art as it requires a drop of blood from the forger. The truth is that the families who own printing presses and bind the books themselves don't want to be run out of business by an all-encompassing source of knowledge. A laughable ban by the Ministry doesn't stop any but the most illogical of Light supporters, though.

I shook my head ruefully to dismiss the directionless path my musings had taken me. I swayed gracefully on my way over to a closet with a thick notice-me-not charm on it, focusing on walking forwards and not on the migraine-inducing spellwork, at last bumping into the thick door of cherry wood. Gripping the door handle with forced absent-mindedness, I swung it open and stalked into a dark, cramped room, breathing in relief as the heavy charmwork was released alongside the tension in my shoulders.

A wave of my wand unlocked and unclasped the trapdoor. I dropped through without a second thought, catching in a heavy Gravity-Vortex Charm, becoming weightless and alighting several hundred feet below on cold stone.

_"Secundo Solem."_

A shining orb of pure light flickered into existence above me. I looked around me at the beginnings of a vault that never progressed beyond the 'idea' stage. The enclosure was a mere dozen yards wide and perfectly circular. I knew without a doubt that the lake was encompassing this chamber on all sides. The walls were made of a natural black stone, glittering in the magelight, and I smirked when the inklings of an idea began to form.

But. That's for another day.

I strode over to the sole artifact housed in what will one day be known as the Grey Family Vault. It was a coat rack, fashioned of sleek, mahogany wood, around seven feet tall and four feet wide. Twin prongs melted out of the slab of wood and arched upwards, gloved in sheek velvet, looking fit for a king. It was a Retrieval Rack, an artifact designed to summon a specific magical item, and this one was tied to one of the most sought-after legends in all of magical history. And on a plaque, an inscription.

_ "Death's Very Own Cloak."_

* * *

**16:00, November 1, 1987;**

**Gaunt Shack, Off Little Hangleton, England;**

**Winding Path, Front Hill;**

**The Nightingale;**

_Oh, how the mighty have fallen._

The last pureblooded descendants of Salazar Slytherin lived and died in this... _place._ Gaunt Shack isn't worthy of a mudblood's house elf, but the most respected founder's line had nowhere else to call home. The very thought was paralyzing, filling me with disgust and hatred, both at the last Slytherins' for dirtying themselves so and at the world for watching it happen. A great tragedy in their deaths, deserved as it had been, had only been averted by my Lord's birth and ascension. Even if my Master was a half-blood.

_But then again, so am I._

I bit my lip at the thought, my ever-present smirk faltering and my royal blue eyes hardening to a mirrored silver. While I understood rationally that it was Lily Evans' blood that ensured not only the emergence of my talent as a metamorph, but the strength of my magical core, my mental health, and my physical acumen, it didn't mean I had to like it. But at the same time, it was James Potter's pure Black blood that passed on the metamorph talent at all; it was the magical heritage of the ancient Peverells that gave me not only my talent for Warding and Transfiguration, but a magical repertoire worthy of a slot in the Lost Library of Alexandria and the skill to cast it. (A rogue thought traversed my mind, absurd and intriguing all at once, mocking with a reckless and wild abandon.

_If both pure and muddy blood has its drawbacks, after all, then there is only one other route to take._

But the thought of doing so was... curious, very curious. This demands heavy research. There will likely be something about it in the Black library section I have copies of. If not, and there is nothing in the impressive Peverell library either, then I can always Legilimize the knowledge straight out of... _their_ minds.)

It was a bittersweet situation, the blood purity reality. For example, Bellatrix had all the power, talent, and skill of the greatest of the Blacks, excelling in the Dark Arts more so than any other British magical save my Lord himself since the fall of Grindelwald; but the cutflower drawback of such purity and power was a tragic loss of a certain... psychological stability.

Not to say Bella was insane; at least, she wasn't in the traditional sense. From the memories my Lord's integrated soul fragment had gifted me, I'm well aware that Master's most dedicated Dark witch was possessed of a wicked sharp and rational mind. Her sadism and talent for the Torture Curse only built on the foundation a cruel intelligence had created. Those who fought and truly remembered Bellatrix Lestrange during the Blood War feared her greatly, but not only for her skill and magical arsenal; it was her aptitude at commanding a force of the Dark Lord's Death Eaters that was truly horrifying.

My slight frown quirked upwards into its usual smirk. I remembered Bella from the Dark Lord's recollections I had acquired in that dank and cursed closet, but it was akin to viewing through a pensieve, and carried with it none of the gripping reality and emotion a face-to-face hauls on its back. I decided then and there to visit Bella in her prison cell under the guise of an old classmate, or Narcissa's friend. I had to see the legend for myself, and I had no desire to wait until Years' End, when the chaos of beautiful rioting and rampant murder would disrupt any calm and collected musing I might have.

Although, I couldn't help but feel a touch apprehensive, even if I would sooner slaughter a drove of muggles than admit it. (In all honesty, I would slaughter a drove of muggles for a bar of Honeyduke's Best chocolate, and then not eat it.) My Lord had always relied on Bellatrix's devotion and trust, knowing it was both uncorruptable and undying. I wanted her to accept me to, and not see me as a dangerous interloper intruding on her space. It was rather like the feeling a girlfriend might feel before meeting her significant other's parents: apprehension, desire, and irrational fear all rolled into a single web of Arachne's finest and stickiest silk.

I pushed the musings to the back of my sociopathic mind and focused on the job I came to complete. I had been tasked by the Dark Lord to check up on the safety of the Gaunt Ring he had stored underneath the Gaunt Shack. I was to then retrieve it, and lock down the cottage with even more Dark magic, effectively improving the potency of this trap for whatever Light fool discovers my Master's heritage and decides to check it out.

I found it highly irrational for the Dark Lord to cache a piece of his soul behind protections he made before his twentieth birthday in a location that can be tied to his name, which he and I both know the Leader of the Light is aware of. Honestly it was a miracle the twinkling dumbass hasn't delved into this location yet. I didn't mention this to my Master, though. knowing even I have boundaries I oughtn't overstep, but it wasn't my Lord's wisest move.

For all his grandfatherly persona and his... _eccentricities,_ I'm not as foolish as half of the Death Eaters' in thinking Dumbledore is a pushover. He is our single greatest enemy in this war. He single-handedly destroyed the world-renowned leader of the enemy faction in the first and last Wizarding World War. And he's only grown stronger in time, even if his mind is obviously slipping, as seen in his apparent refusal to check up on the location of his enemy's heritage.

Regardless of Dumbledore's admittedly worrying inaction, my mission straight from the Dark Lord himself is to retrieve the Ring and store it in a hiding place of my own devising. I had several ideas for the protections, ranging from alternate dimensional rifts to seven-layered Fidelius Charms, that would keep the Chief Warlock away at night even if he somehow managed to Dowse the location for it. Warding is, after all, the Peverells' strongest family magic; I had dozens of schematics drawn up in my mind, the vast majority of which would hold strong even in the unlikely occurrence of my death.

The prospect of my death, however, only proved to amuse me. Even had I been felled through either folly or a Gouger to the heart, I would feel nothing but a vague sense of disappointment.

After all, if I was killed so easily, then I wasn't of any practical use to my Lord in the first place.

And so I glided up to the serpent nailed to the Shack's door, passing overgrown hedges and secretly marked rocks, evading Warding pits and traps with a graceful ease. The memories were known but not, like meeting an old friend you had made in a past life, mixing familiarity with strangeness. And then, I hissed the passphrase.

_"Even godsss fall from graccce."_

* * *

**01:30, November 6, 1987;**

**Wizarding United Inn, Celeste Alley, London;**

**Room Nine Hundred And Twelve, Ninth Floor;**

**The Nightingale;**

There was a swirling of lunar light, and an Arrowjack Eagle Patronus manifested through the thrice-locked door and settled ontop of my four-poster bed. Its mouth opened, emitting an eerily deep voice for such a vicious-seeming creature. The words were harsh, low, but certain. _"Nightingale, the Circus is in position. ETA five minutes. Don't Crucio me if I get a shot in, just making your abduction realistic. Eagle out."_

I smirked at Macnair's words, finding the normally stoic man's gallows' humor refreshing. The gradually growing trust and respect of all the Death Eaters of the Inner Circle was always relieving to witness. It was important to me that they value my work and presence, and not only to augment our efficiency during the upcoming War. I was no might-is-right dictator, relying on my Master's threats for my soldiers to stay in line.

In the end, earning their appreciation had begun shockingly easily. And while they won't follow me like they did Bellatrix Lestrange or do for the Dark Lord yet, and likely won't for years, building the foundation had been surprisingly simple.

The problem had been in the materials of the construct I'm building; that is to say, I wanted to craft the right sort of relationship with the Death Eaters of the Inner Circle. I didn't want them wary, fearing me needlessly and too terrified to come to me with their ideas. I desired a connection like what I had somehow already developed with Lucius; casual understanding, while knowing their place.

I couldn't borrow the Dark Lord's method of mixing awe, worship, and terror. At best I'd become a mini-Master that's nothing more than a pawn, doing what the Dark Lord would do. At worst it would backfire tremendously, and Lady Magic knows what would happen. (Not to mention, I haven't the slightest idea how I would go about convincing them to worship me.)

No, I need my own potion of unique flavors. Respect for my skill in both magic and leadership, certainly. Trust in both my intelligence and understanding of them and lack of unreasonable punishments. Perhaps a mix of lust, as well; though I'd aim for more of a Dark Lady Morgana-esque aristocratic beauty than the type of visage most of the Inner Circle collects as mistresses. And – perhaps, most importantly – a deep, ingrained _knowing_ not to fuck with me.

I had to establish myself at the top of the food chain, however. And it all began when I wandlessly Crucio'ed Nott in front of the entire Inner Circle plus Karkaroff and their children when he foolishly mocked me back at Malfoy Manor three days ago.

I had been filled with such _hatred;_ I don't think I could replicate the feat now that I possess a clear mind. But after seven years of emotional abuse and belittlement at the hands of the Dursleys, I had _no_ desire to undergo the Death Eater equivalent once I've finally broken free. So I snapped.

Even his son agreed his father had deserved it. He hasn't woken from the Comatose Ward yet. Last I heard he had a cot right next to Frank and Alice Longbottom. What an ironic twist of fate.

What really drove my position home in the minds of the Dark wizards there, though, was when our Lord just laughed at the scene. He had called a house elf a solid ten minutes afterwards to have Nott ferried to Saint Mungo's. He then beckoned me over, and I spent the rest of the night on his throne-like chair's armrest. He toyed with my hair, tinged blue, and praised me for _enforcing discipline. _Memories of Resurrection Day raced through the assembled wizards' minds, and I couldn't contain a bloody smirk.

I felt my second Perimeter Ward scream into my mind, and snatched my holly wand from its position underneath my royal blue pillow. _So they disabled the first one,_ I mused, both impressed and a touch disappointed. _But they didn't notice the second. Not their top enforcers, then._

I slid stealthily out from underneath the warming covers and snuck behind the cherry-wood door. I kept my shimmering Acromantula silk nightgown on, as well as the lace underclothes on underneath. Mostly to sell the act that I hadn't expected their arrival, but partly because it gave me a devilish amusement to do so.

With a resounding _smash_ the door was flung open, and no less than three masked wizards charged into the hotel room. They fired Reductors in tandem at the bed I had only just vacated, aiming with lethal precision. The four-poster was torn to shreds with a storm of wooden debris and a detonation akin to a thunderbolt.

Under cover of the pounding explosion's noise, I fired a modified Stunner at their backs. It blasted off in a prismatic cone, flickering Stupefy red with streaks of violet. The three masked enforcers of the organization the Death Eaters' had nick-named Circus dropped like stones, knocked forcefully into a vicious nightmare with a countercurse only I and the Dark Lord are aware of.

I rapidly erected a Rebounding Barrier in the doorway, only to be proved pointless as the entire wall was blown to smithereens. I jerked back in legitimate surprise, only to duck and roll a moment later to dodge a Bone-Breaker to the kisser.

Hissing expletives in parseltongue, I Transfigured the lounge bed's debris into a horde of venomous serpents. I commanded them to _bite, poison, slay_ and Banished them regardless for haste. There was a feminine shriek and a thumping crash, but I ignored the success of my casting.

_"Ortheon,"_ I whispered. A rotating, spinning violet glyph manifested in front of me, arcane runecraft decorating the edges. The Magic Missile Charm erupted from the magic, a full dozen silvery violet meteorites arcing dangerously towards the masked enforcers.

Momentarily distracted by the various detonations and flashes of light, I didn't notice the Blood-Freezer impacting against my shoulder. I fell to the lacquered ground with a shriek of agony.

All I saw was the smirking face of Mad-Eye Moody before blacking out from the pain.

* * *

**A/N: Anyone who guesses who I'm referring to when I say "Circus" gets a cookie and a kiss from Madison.**

**This chapter was hell to write, and I don't really like how it turned out. There was originally going to be Madison's first raid in this chapter, but it wasn't coming out right and I kept putting it off so you'll see it Chapter Four. Then, Azkaban and Bella.  
Toodles. Whispers out.**


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